Z107M
by Mako-Masamune
Summary: Re-telling of ANK and Dark Erogenous, in a slight AU. IasonxRiki. YAOI alert. - Spampost: WIP.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: This is a somewhat alternate universe, so there are a few differences in the characters and the character histories which are hopefully well-explained enough to understand. Bear with me. I'm just having fun here.

* * *

Raoul said it was because he needed a Pet.

Raoul was perceptive, and his judgment was usually sound, but in this particular area Iason found his commentary suspect. While Iason had no regrets about their relationship, he was aware of Raoul's attempts to resurrect it—and Mink had no interest in pursuing another liason with him. He had needed a sexual instructor when he came of age, someone to introduce him to physical pleasure and ensure that he was as good at sex—or rather, the few quasi-sexual games permissible to blondies—as he was at everything else. Once the skill was mastered, however, he saw no need to continue the sessions. He found the loss of control unsettling, and the nudity vaguely ridiculous. He far preferred time spent at chess or billiards—intellectual games between intellectuals. Games he usually won.

Raoul did not seem to feel the same way, and Iason would not entirely put it past him to use the Pet scenario as a segue into another 'casual' offer of sexual services.

On the other hand, he _had _been without a Pet for some time. And _something_ was troubling him. He had been feeling pensive. In need of a challenge. In need of something to focus his mind and will.

" . . . a hobby," Katze said from the front seat.

"Hmm?" Iason had been staring out the window, with his chin resting on the knuckles of one white-gloved hand, and he had missed the first part of what his Furniture said.

"I was saying the market is doing well. It doesn't require as much of your supervision, and there's no resistance to Jupiter worth speaking of. There's no need to push yourself so hard. It seems a number of blondies are taking up hobbies. You could spend some time in a personal pursuit, too, if you wanted to."

"Like what?"

Katze wasn't sure.

"But something to draw you out of yourself," he said. "You live in your own mind too much."

Iason frowned. It was unlike Katze to voice a direct criticism, and still rarer for him to give personal advice. Perhaps Raoul had gotten to him. Raoul's 'hobby' was breeding Pets for various desirable traits, and he had offered Iason his choice of any of the pedigreed lines he had created.

Unfortunately, Raoul was always making the rarer, more expensive female Pets with hair so a light shade of red as to be nearly blonde. Pretty enough, but the private, inexplicable truth was—Iason preferred dark hair. Katze, his first Furniture who was now his driver and supervisor of the black market, was a red, but such a dark shade of red as to be nearly auburn. His current Furniture was a mere brown. His Pets, when he kept one at all, were all varying shades of brown.

He had never felt like attempting to explain the attraction to Raoul, whose Pets were all female and all classic beauties, even though Raoul, of all his acquaintance, was the most likely to accept the idiosyncrasy. Once, in the days when they occasionally played bed games together, Raoul had insisted that Iason join him at an auction, which had included the sale of several exotics—boys with lactating breasts, bearded dwarves, and wretched little children whose minds had been tampered into a perpetual state of fear, sold as part of a set with a many-tentacled monster. Iason had stopped in the entryway to the stockyards. One of the rape-children was screaming and a fairly pretty youth from one of the low-end pedigrees had started a fire. The auctioneer was beside them, and Raoul had wanted to let him vent about the qualities of the nearby merchandise, but Iason was already leaving, saying to no one in particular, "None of these."

This had earned him a somewhat long-winded lecture from Raoul, who felt that the auctioneer should have been afforded more respect.

That was the trouble with Raoul. He cared so absurdly much about what other people thought. Raoul was, presumably, something of a mistake on Jupiter's part. Of all the blondies, he was the most likely to make a mistake if left in charge of the subcomputers that ran Tanagura, or forget some small but vital piece of information, and so his primary duties included the unenviable task of tampering with the minds of blondies who had failed Jupiter. For all the complexity of that task, it made Raoul into a social pariah. Everyone knew someone who had been made into a sexdoll, and while they voiced no protest over such measures, they also did not like to be haunted with the specters of pretty blonde brothel boys who had once been friends, lovers, family.

Iason was one of the few who valued skill over status, and who realized that when Raoul made a mistake it was never due to ineptitude or laziness, but rather a misdirection of a vast talent. What Raoul had, which was quite singular for a blondie, was an almost uncanny ability to sense change within a person, or in the atmosphere of a room or a society. He often knew the ones he would have to visit before any crime had been committed, or even expressly thought of.

They had become allies—Jupiter's favorite son and the executioner of Eos— and both benefited from the association. Iason gained a valuable second, who could reliably alert him to trouble before it came. Raoul gained social status among the blondies, and the welcome company of one who, like Jupiter, remained as cool and unchanging as steel.

Iason himself was an experiment in a new form of intelligence, and the first such to be truly successful. He had the ability to know by instinct what mere observation could not reveal, and his gift bordered on precognition. He could usually tell when someone he knew was looking at him, and knew what they were going to say before they spoke. When he dreamed, he dreamed of major events on Amoi.

It was that unconscious knowing, he decided later, that made him look up at that moment, that moment on which the whole of the rest of his life hinged. He had been about to reach for the factory report from the Endril district, when something caught his eye—or perhaps it was nothing visible, simply the press of fate, of the invisible thread that bound him forever to Riki the Dark.

Years later, while he sat broken and bleeding amid the burning rubble of Dana Bahn, amid the tortured screams of rending metal and the smoke that burned his eyes like tears, he would think back on this moment, and know that he would change nothing.

Nothing at all.

If he had the opportunity, he would once again speak to his Furniture suddenly, sharply, saying:

"Stop the car."


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: Standard Disclaimer. Do not own any AnK characters, settings, etc.

* * *

There were five of them— against one. Some luckless citizen had apparently run afoul of the semi-official gangs that passed for law enforcement in Midas, and he would soon be paying with his life. It was no mere drunken brawl; the law-gang attacked with coordinated precision, but the man in their midst was refusing to go down without a fight.

And he fought beautifully.

Like a cornered panther, his movements were fierce and fast and raw, his fists never missing their targets, his kicks flashing out in bursts of strength. He seemed to follow no particular school of training in his fighting style, amalgamating about a dozen types of moves into his attacks and parries, but he compensated for the rather haphazard approach with alertness, determination, and speed. The Stella Quota produced Pets who were reputed to be capable of a similar brutal grace, but Iason found them disappointing because they utterly failed to reproduce what could not be taught: spirit. When he'd watched their coordinated fights at various free pairing parties, they always seemed too well-choreographed, emphasizing every opportunity to display their muscular bodies, careful never to do real damage to each other. They would never, for instance, allow themselves to be caught in a headlock, or if they did, they would not _bite _their way out of it. They would never land three groin shots in a row, for fear of boring their easily-wearied audience. They would not risk skinning their knuckles or purpling their lovely faces.

This man fought differently, with an utter abandon that came close to frenzy. He yelled. He cursed. He threw his whole life into every one of his punches. He seemed a master of his foul environment— the trash bins and broken pallets not impeding him, but rather serving as impromptu props, giving him wings. Even in the darkness of the alley, his lithe body gleamed with sweat, making him shine like a bronze god, and the city shadows clung to his hair. In a single, swift motion, he dropped to avoid a punch and came up armed with a broken bottle. Twice he almost escaped the dank alley where they had him trapped by leaping up the walls that read "Fuck Tanagura," "Achilles Lives," and "Gliddy and Cid Forever." Iason heard a bone snap, and one of the law-gang fell to the ground, screaming curses and clutching a knee.

But too soon, the inevitable came.

As the wiry fighter tried to shimmy up a gutter pipe, two of the law-gang caught him by either leg, and he went down hard. He transformed the fall into an attack—locking his legs around the head of one of the men and dragging him down with him, but they got him on the ground, and one of the gang who'd been kicked hard in the abdomen returned the favor to the now-prone fighter, making him curl tightly in pain.

Even so, he struggled—arching his back and cursing in a steady stream of invective as soon as he got his breath back.

They would take him apart now. They might rape him for a while before cutting his phallus off and stuffing it in his mouth.

Pity.

He had been more entertainment than any of the legitimate venues Midas had offered this time.

Iason sat for a moment longer, watching the play of traffic light on sweaty muscles, and then, even though the life of a mere citizen of Midas should not be worth this much of a blondie's attention, he opened the car door and stood.

* * *

This was bad.

Very bad.

This pink-haired Midaser meant to kill him. Sometimes even the guys with guns or shockeyes weren't real threats. But there was a look in the eyes that meant murder, and these guys had it. These guys had done this before.

Rikki hadn't wanted to take any of Bison with him, not when he was doing the really dangerous shit, but any one of them would have made the difference now. There were only five of these guys, and they were good but not great, and with a little luck two Bison boys would have been able to nab the car and get away clean, even after these shitheads had caught him at work. Of course, the logical choice would have been Guy, and Guy was having one of his fits, which was why Rikki needed the car in the first place.

Dammit.

"Go ahead and squeal, mongrel rat. Let's hear you beg."

"Fuck you, you fucking prick. You are so fucking pathetic—_Five guys_ here to take _one_ down."

That got him another kick in the ribs and a: "Shut up!"

Rikki spat at the nearest one, splattering phlegm and blood from a split lip across his face.

"You got your filthy rat blood on me. Just have to spill a little more to make up for it."

The phase blade was thin and pink as the punk's hair. It was one of the sidestreet specials, with a blade designed to find all your nerve endings and make your body feel like it was on fire. And he knew exactly what part they were going to go for first.

Another phase blade, a yellow one this time, hummed to life, and when Pink Hair tossed it to a guy behind Rikki, Rikki made a grab for it—which made them laugh.

"Tell you what: if you say 'please, please, help me,' I'll let you go." Pink Hair was really loving this.

"Fuck off."

"That's what I get for trying to teach a mongrel some manners. Guess it's up to me to teach you your place, Rikki 'the Dark.' The city thanks us for killing shits like you. You should thank us, too. Who'd want to be a slum rat like you? Besides, it's not like you really have any right to bitch, even if we do—_this_!"

He raised his arm. Rikki wouldn't give them the satisfaction of flinching, but he gritted his teeth and shut his eyes against the coming pain.

Which never came.

He heard a gasp, and a sound of bones crunching, and he looked up in time to see Pink Hair being lifted bodily off his feet and hoisted into the air.

A white-gloved hand caught the pink phase blade as it fell, deftly turning it off in the same motion.

For one breathless moment, Rikki watched as Pink Hair twisted, hoisted into the air by one broken arm, in too much pain to scream. A long-haired stranger had him by the wrist, and was still squeezing as he lifted.

Blonde guy.

Ridiculously tall.

A blondie.

An actual blondie.

He had never seen one of Jupiter's sons up close before, but he could tell what he was looking at by the eerie way this guy's showed absolutely no sign of exerting any effort at all. He seemed relaxed, almost as if his arm were moving of its own accord.

Actually, he looked half-asleep.

The grip on Rikki's neck relaxed.

The yellow phase blade dropped, sank into the cement, flickered, and went out.

"B-blondie . . ." One of them sounded like he was going to shit himself.

The blondie dropped Pink Hair, who clutched his crushed wrist. Five neat, obvious breaks, visible even from where Rikki sat, marked Pinky's arm where each of the blondie's fingers had gripped him.

Pink Hair whimpered, staggered to his feet and fled, his little posse following hard on his heels.

Just like that, Rikki was free.

* * *

It was worse than he'd thought.

The man he'd saved was nothing but a mongrel. Ceres slum trash.

Iason regarded him for a moment longer while he leapt to his feet, then turned back toward the car where Katze was waiting. He wondered idly why his sixth sense hadn't alerted him to the worthlessness of the individual he was saving.

"Hey!" The mongrel, apparently not one to leave well enough alone, was shouting after him. "Who are you?"

Iason did not break his stride.

"Go back to Ceres."

"What the hell did you do that for?"

"No reason."

"I didn't need you to do that!"

Iason stopped and looked at the mongrel again, trying to decide if he was serious. Apparently, he wasn't completely insane because he had the self-awareness to look momentarily chagrined, but that was quickly replaced by anger. The mongrel seemed constantly ready to be mocked, and ready to answer that mockery with violence.

"Listen: I don't owe anyone anything, got that?"

He shoved a wad of credits toward Iason. He looked like he wanted to throw the thin, multi-colored filaments at him, but the long lash of hunger had taught him to keep a grip on whatever money was his.

Or, in this case, wasn't his.

Even better.

"You're a thief." Iason observed. "You stole the wallet of the man who was going to kill you."

This mongrel was almost impressive in his relentless, bull-headed defiance. Even while fighting for his life, he had had the foresight to try to die rich.

The mongrel paled and the outthrust arm lowered.

"So . . . what? You're going to turn me in to the police?"

"Next time, I will. Remember that."

Iason resumed walking.

"How do I know you'll keep quiet?"

"Because I have no interest in you."

"Fuck you!" The mongrel lunged at him and Iason let him catch up, but caught him by the arm when it looked like was going to come too close. For a moment, the mongrel was pressed against him, his raw body still hot and panting from an earthy exertion completely alien to Tanagura. This black-haired slum boy had just seen Iason snap a grown man's wrist, but he did not bat an eyelash in fear, even though Iason now held his own wrist in a similar grip.

"I'd rather die than owe you anything," he snarled, black eyes glittering. "_Elite._"

He smelled like cheap laundry soap and sweat, but not, as Iason had initially assumed, like unwashed flesh. He was a clean gutter rat. And a sudden sensation that was neither revulsion nor contempt swept through Iason's artificial body. He released the mongrel quickly and stepped away.

"I'll give you something else, then," the mongrel said, still scowling. "C'mon. It's not far, but you'll have to walk."

What was truly amusing was the way this mongrel fully expected that he, a Tanagura blondie, would obey. He was already sauntering out of the alley, not looking back. Iason paused, considering all the possibilities, but now the mongrel had piqued his curiosity.

Did he think to offer him drugs? A new source for the black market? In the past, mongrels tried to curry favor by betraying their friends to Tanagura, but the days for that were gone.

The mongrel's hips moved with a smooth, masculine grace as he walked, and his walk was slouching and defensive, more swagger than stride. And as he emerged from the alley shadows, his bronze body gleamed.

Iason followed, though he was not in the habit of following.

The black-haired creature had proved amusing thus far, and, judging by the expression on his face, he might try to kill him. It had been a few years since the last assasination attempt, so that, too, could prove amusing.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:** Standard disclaimer about Ai No Kusabi belonging to its creator, etc.

**Author's Note:** Say, if anyone has a copy of an English translation of _Dark Erogenous_, could you PM me? It used to be available on croik's website, which is gone now, and I (stupidly) was assuming it was a permanent Internet fixture. If there is such a thing. Unfortunately, if I can't get a copy of the transcript, there will be a rather long pause while I am trying to finagle something. Thanks!

Also, though, I should mention that I am currently involved in two other writing projects, as well as a rather hectic, stressful life, so, just so you know, even if all goes well, updates aren't going to be, like, weekly or anything.

* * *

He had never been this close to an Elite. Had never known anyone else who had, either. Apart from a red interior bodysuit, this blondie was wearing white, of all things, with lots of draping and flowing and fluttering. That, even more than the hair and the face, told Riki what he was. It was the kind of outfit that would be ruined beyond repair just by walking the streets of Ceres.

Fuck him.

Who the hell asked for his help, anyway? Riki had had things under control.

Alright, maybe he hadn't.

Still didn't give this blonde shit the right to come gawk at the little ghetto brawl.

"So is that the new thing with Elites these days," Riki called over his shoulder, "slumming down on the south side of Midas? You know, I can show you some hot spots in Ceres if that's what you're after."

The blondie studied him with an impassive stare, fixed and—indifferent.

Riki looked away first.

"We're here."

* * *

By the time the mongrel led the way into the cheap love hotel, Iason had a good inkling of what was going to be offered.

It seemed this young man from the slums did not know about the regulations regarding Elite sexuality, which was understandable. Ceres was worlds away from Tanagura, and Iason himself was more familiar with the laws and rituals governing the ruling classes of distant solar systems than he was with the unthinkably poor refuse of the misguided insurgency. But he knew them to be alarmingly sexually permissive, and he shared the general Elite attitude toward them: a mixture of mocking amusement and disgust.

Unlike most Elites, however, he did not regard their unmodified minds and bodies to be bestial and primitive. Backward, certainly, and completely lacking in refinement, but his indirect dealings with them, via his Furniture Katze, had left him with a certain admiration for their- tenacity.

He had certainly never been this long in the company of one of them, but this mongrel had not yet disappointed him by being predictable, which was more than could be said for any number of visiting embassies.

The mongrel, apparently, knew the owner of this dilapidated hovel, because when he nodded toward the rusting robot seated in a cage lined with keys and overshadowed by a conspicuous weapon, the robot nodded back with an unoiled creak, and tossed a key through the grating.

_So . . . when he can't get what he wants by theft or violence, he entertains strange men in places like this._

Iason's own reaction surprised him.

_A body so free, so rebellious, could be possessed entirely- probably for a pittance that most Midas whores would consider an insult._

This could be a mutually beneficial association.

There were always high-class guests who wanted a particularly dirty sexual experience. If this mongrel were disease-free, and willing to perform some unusual forms of copulation, he might never again be without the cigarettes and narcotic liquors so prized in Ceres.

And as for what Iason would receive in return . . .

It should be a simple matter to replace a single strand of that obsidian hair with an optical device, so that what this mongrel did or had done to him would be in Iason's personal records. Useful for gathering information about the preferences of his clientele. Or blackmail, if necessary.

Or perhaps even- private enjoyment.

He followed up the creaking flight of stairs, noting the way the sole of one of the mongrel's shoes was separating from the heel, and had been rather unsuccessfully repaired with gum. The room the key opened was stuffy and hot, with wallpaper torn on one wall and bulging on another. The floor above creaked rhythmically, and a muffled voice cried out in the throes of an obviously fake orgasm.

The mongrel ran a hand through his hair and seemed almost embarrassed by the sound- like a Furniture caught with a messy residence in front of important guests.

Iason seated himself on the sagging, threadbare couch, folded his hands on his knee and waited. The mongrel regarded him, looking Iason up and down with bold, onyx eyes, as if trying to determine which one of them was master here. Iason suppressed a smile.

Again, the mongrel looked away first, sighing this time. He had whatever answer he was looking for.

"All right," he said, running a hand through his ragged hair. "Let's get this over with."

He seemed bent on looking at anything besides Iason. He would have to work on his bedside manner.

"So I'm correct in assuming that you mean to pay me back with your body?" Iason asked. "Is that an accepted form of currency among mongrels?"

The black eyes flashed.

"Listen, motherfucker: no one asked me if I wanted to get born in a fucking slum." One fist clenched, the knuckles still scraped and slightly bloody from his last fight, but just as abruptly, the slum rat swallowed his anger. "Just 'cause I'm not Midas-whore material doesn't mean I'm no damn good. What do you want, anyway? I give a pretty good blowjob, but I'll let you stick it in if you want. It's only fair."

Iason chuckled. "Unfortunately for your sense of- propriety, I am not so desperate that I would need to touch a mongrel."

"Look- I don't _have _anything else to pay you back with."

"Then you don't have anything I want."

The mongrel made a strangled noise, as if he were choking on fury.

"You misapprehend. Far finer breeds than 'Midas-whore material' are willing and eager to pay _me_ for the opportunity to be my Pet, even momentarily." Iason got to his feet, and the angry youth seemed smaller as Iason's shadow fell across him. "But since you insist with such- enthusiasm, I'll help you fulfill your mongrel code of honor. Take your clothes off and stand against the wall."

He wanted to know first-hand what kind of body hid beneath the rags, before offering him to an associate.

"Don't do me any favors, shithead." If Iason tuned his mind to listen to the mongrel's thoughts, he could feel a roil of anger, hurt and humiliation, coupled with a sudden, intense desire to back out of the present arrangement.

"Enough. Let me see this body you're so proud of."

* * *

_What a fucking prick._

_You must have hurt your mother getting born with that silver spoon in your mouth._

If he was expecting some kind of song and dance to go with his fuck, he could go suck _himself_ off.

But what really stuck in Riki's throat, was that he hadn't even considered the possibility that a blondie might have so much tail at his disposal that he'd find the offer of a mongrel ass laughable. As this rich fuck so plainly thought it was. Riki was more angry with himself for missing something so obvious than he was at being insulted.

Well, he was plenty pissed about the insults, too.

As things stood now, they were just about even, even without any fucking being exchanged. It made him more self-conscious than he usually was when he shucked his sweaty shirt. The zipper on his pants had long since broken and the button was gone. His cracked leather belt was the nicest thing any of the Bisons wore, but he saw it now through the cool blue eyes watching him. He was wearing trash.

Naked, he actually felt less exposed. He stepped out of his shoes and went over to lean against the wall, waiting for the blondie to show himself, too.

Was the guy getting excited?

It was impossible to tell.

But his voice was hushed when he added, "Put your hands above your head."

"I'm not fucking letting you tie me up."

Riki wasn't about to put himself in a position where he could be hurt worse than what the law-gang had had planned for him. In the slums, helping hands were to be thanked, not trusted.

"I don't mean to use restraints," the blondie said. Which Riki guessed was supposed to reassure him.

Sighing, he turned to face the yellowing wallpaper and braced himself against the wall with his palms flat and higher than his head. He bent a little to give easy access to his hole.

"There's courtesy lube in the-"

"No."

_Shit. He's going to do it dry?_

"Face me. And I want your hands closer together. Both directly above your head."

Riki blinked.

"O-kay."

He did as directed, and then felt the warmth of the artificial body as the blondie closed the distance between them. A gloved hand closed over both of Riki's. A soft, velvety touch that pinned him against the wall.

He was still fully dressed, and his white outerwear enveloped both of them, so it was like being pulled into bed with him. Riki, at least, was naked beneath a silken sheet.

But it was the clear blue eyes that made him feel suddenly, completely trapped.

He felt naked, then.

He felt as if he were being devoured.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer:** Standard disclaimer about _Ai No Kusabi_ belonging to its creator, etc.

**Author's Note:** I'm back sooner than I thought I'd be. (Yay!) Reviews and constructive criticism are always deeply appreciated.

* * *

The mongrel looked better than Iason had expected. Much better.

This was a man's body: lean and hard and equal to his own. Nothing like the freaks Raoul was so fond of, nor like the oily-skinned boys that seemed to be all Tanagura had to offer. _That _was the trouble with his Pets, why he could never stand the sight of them after a few weeks. The scarcity of women and the dominance of Jupiter meant that the popular trend in males were effeminate youths so emaciated and ill-looking as to be essentially sexless. All his previous Pets had been designed by blondies who suffered from a lack of appreciation for _male _beauty.

This mongrel's attractiveness was pure and hard, his body made of defiance.

Iason ran a few cursory scans, admiring the unfettered way his nerves played, the quickening course of blood in his veins, the chemical beginnings of an entirely natural arousal, refreshingly untouched by Imprinting or Ruse.

How amusing it would be to turn such a creature loose among the vaunted Pet pedigrees at Apatia. What sort of lines would _he _spawn? What sort of havoc would he wreak among the simpering creatures at the free pairing parties?

Iason switched his eyes back to their normal setting, and looked instead at the broad chest now rising and falling with increasingly ragged breaths, at the sweat starting to bead on his forehead, at the split lip swelling from his scuffle.

Why were there no Pets as lovely as this ink-haired bit of gutter garbage?

Iason let his gaze move over the mongrel's skin, reading the story written in his flesh. A phase-blade wound between two ribs. Various scrapes and blemishes on his legs and arms- hoverbike wrecks? beatings? He could not have learned to fight so well without losing a few squabbles, nor how to fly in the urban jungle without falling once or twice. He had a deep mark on his inner thigh- not from a phase-blade, but from a simple sharpened bit of metal. And on the soft flesh inside his elbow, an old, blurred scar, once perfectly round, where someone had put a cigarette out on boyhood skin.

Marks from the long, slow torture of life in the Ceres slums.

Iason studied him until the mongrel grew impatient and demanded, "What? You're just going to look?"

"Not to worry," Iason whispered. "I'll enjoy myself."

In truth, Iason was finding the mongrel's body a keenly pleasurable erotic stimulation, enough so that he felt justified in using all his considerable skill.

* * *

He was just . . . looking.

And looking.

And _looking_.

And the room around them was hot, the lights dark and brothel red, and the smell of this blondie was overpowering the love hotel smells of stale lust and cheap drugs.

He smelled like power and privilege.

Riki decided he stank.

But those heavy-lidded eyes left him more naked than nudity, cold and blue in the hot air, his face unmoving while the stare probed him, fondled him, licked him.

There was something too _personal_ about it.

Riki had a partner, after all. There were plenty of things he wasn't going to do. He wasn't going to take tops. He wasn't going to make out with this guy. He would prefer not coming, and ideally wouldn't get a hard-on at all. But how could he tell him no looking? That seemed a little- he wasn't even sure how to say that.

All he knew was that this blondie was taking far more from him than the simple fucking that was offered.

Riki was getting turned on.

More turned on than he had been in years.

Just from the pressure of the blondie's nearness, and the heat of his gaze, Riki was hard. Hard enough to choke on.

_That _had _never_ happened before. Sex didn't really effect Riki- it was good for a bit of friendly fun or to help soothe an itch. It wasn't like this.

It had never been like this.

There were guys who had fucked Riki ragged who hadn't ever been this deep inside him.

And the way the blondie stayed clothed only made Riki's nakedness more intimate and vulnerable.

"Aren't you . . . going to take your clothes off?" It was hard to get enough air to talk.

"Elites don't undress in front of their Pets."

The cold words splashed a little water on Riki and he pulled himself together enough to snap: "I'm not your fucking Pet."

He pushed against the gloved hand pinning his arms above his head, but even though the blondie's fingers were bent back at an awkward angle, his grip did not loosen at all.

Riki didn't really know much about what Pets did, but he knew what was left of them when an Elite was done, and _that _would never be him. He opened his mouth to say exactly what he thought of being compared to a Pet, but then the blondie touched him, and Riki was suddenly, perfectly certain that he had made a mistake in inviting him here.

* * *

_Not my Pet? Perhaps not. But I'll see to it that you never forget this hour, little mongrel._

He ran white-gloved fingers through the jet black hair, and the mongrel shivered at the touch.

_He's not used to being touched gently. Not this one._

Even though Iason was being a bit rougher than he usually was with his Pets, it was the gentleness that was making the boy writhe. Iason rubbed the tips of his gloves together, idly half-checking to see if the darkness left any stain on them.

The mongrel didn't notice the gesture, because his eyes were closed now, and he had shrunk back against the wall, panting, muscles straining prettily against the pressure of Iason's grasp.

Iason brushed his fingers against the sensitive places where the mongrel's raw nerve-endings flashed, and smiled despite himself at the sound of his gasps.

There was something invigorating about bringing such a masculine male to whimpering moans. It cut through the boredom that plagued Iason's existence, and woke something deep in his artificial body, something that had slumbered beneath the cloying society politesse of Tanagura.

He was seized with a desire not to destroy, but to dominate. Destruction was easy. But to possess all of this mongrel's power with a greater power of his own, to be his true master, and summon his pleasure with a word . . .

"Sssssh," he soothed as he stretched out a single finger to touch the wet tip of the mongrel's erection.

The mongrel came violently, crying out with a mixture of ecstasy and fear, as his body jerked and thudded against the wall. His orgasm was so intense that Iason himself felt an answering wave of pleasure sweep through him, of the kind that only the most skillful Pets had ever provided him. And . . . more. This washed through both mind and body, giving him not only the beginnings of an erection, but also a sweet titillation of his own unique, extrasensory abilities. He sensed- possibility.

And then Iason was supporting the mongrel's weight with the hand that held him in place.

The black eyes fixed on him with an expression of stunned disbelief as the boy panted, sagging heavily in Iason's grip. So he, too, had gotten more than he had bargained for.

"Finished so soon?" Iason chided. His own fault, he knew, for arousing the mongrel past what could be humanly borne, but he couldn't resist teasing the proud creature.

"What- did you do to me? Who are you?"

"Iason Mink," Iason replied. "As to what I'm doing to you . . ." He switched to the language of the Elites, the digital tongue pronounceable only by the beings created by Jupiter, and said: "Perfection in everything."

The blondie words. The motto by which his kind lived, the first, and usually the last words spoken by every Elite created. The mongrel, of course, would not be able to understand, but it would serve as proof of what Iason was. But Iason was also speaking half to himself, stating what he intended to do next.

The mongrel's performance had been intense and strong, but too brief to be perfect.

Iason wasn't finished.

He cupped the boy's chin in one gloved hand, and lightly caressed the parted, bleeding lips, making him shuddered in a fresh rush of terrible pleasure. Then Iason brought his face close to the mongrel's ear, and breathed in the scent of shadows and street. He closed the distance between them, pressing the full length of his body against the lithe, muscular one, pushing his white-clad thigh between the dark legs to hold him in place.

He could feel each heaving, shuddering breath as the black-haired boy panted against him.

And Iason felt a sudden, sweeping urge to press his lips against the swollen, split ones. It was the unexpectedness of the desire, more than its intensity, that made him bend toward the mongrel's mouth.

The boy jerked his head away.

"No kissing!" he panted snappishly. "This is just business."

Iason buried his fingers in the black silk hair and brought his mouth down hard against the mongrel's. The kiss tasted like blood. Salt and life.

Beneath him, the mongrel thrashed and screamed into the kiss, and then, so abruptly as to be startling, his resistance became the sweetest, deepest groan Iason had ever heard.

An enticing hardness was growing between them, even though the dark-haired youth had just climaxed.

Iason released the dark hair and slid his hand down- and began stroking him.

* * *

_This can't be happening._

It shouldn't even be possible for him to be wanting it this badly, not after he just came, and came hard.

But the hand on him was raw sex, moving so slowly it was torture.

Just being touched by this guy was hotter than a blowjob, hotter than fucking. He'd been with a woman, once, and this was better than that.

"S-stop it," he gasped.

He had to get out, had to get away. No one should be able to control him like this.

But this blondie, this- Iason, just kept watching him with his blue eyes while touching him, touching him. Down and down and up and up, so soft and finely controlled that the only part of his body that Riki could feel was his cock, throbbing now and starting to weep.

And then the blondie really started in on him.

He felt himself being pushed into that high point: the breathless, strained moment just before orgasm. And held there. And held there. Locked in that desperate instant. Iason Mink watched him impassively, looking for all the world as if he meant to keep him like this all night. Riki couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't even scream.

He needed to come.

It took all his effort, all his will, to get enough air, but he finally managed: "I'm not your . . . fucking toy! . . . Stop! _Stop!_"

But his last demand was more of a plea.

The inhumanly perfect lips curved upward, and the blondie replied low, throaty whisper.

"I want to see if I can make you weep with desire."

As if on command, Riki felt tears welling in his eyes.

_No fucking way._

But the thought was more disbelief than refusal.

Then the blondie did- something- with his fingers, and Riki couldn't even think about the fact that he was about to cry on cue, that his body was betraying him more completely and more humiliatingly than it ever had before. All he could think about was the touch on his cock driving him to the point of insanity.

When he started to cry, he did not even notice. He was in a new level of lust that he had not known existed.

* * *

_Such a beautiful, fierce male._

Iason admired the way the mongrel's muscles tensed.

He waited until the exact moment when the tears spilled from between the thick black lashes, then brought the lovely boy to orgasm.

A fresh jet of whitish pleasure soaked Iason's glove, and the mongrel cried out as he came, arching into Iason's chest as spasm after spasm wracked him. A pure, unfettered pleasure, heady and- real.

As it ended, the mongrel stayed where he was, eyes squeezed shut while he gasped for breath. The red light of the love hotel room darkened his tears, made them look like streaks of blood coming from his eyes.

Iason touched the boy's jaw, tracing a slippery line down to a point where a tear bulged, ready to fall. Thoughtfully, he joined the two salty fluids with his fingertip and rubbed them together.

_Sorrow and ecstasy._

Then, rather abruptly, he released the mongrel and let him sink to the floor. Iason watched him panting at his feet for a moment longer, before turning to walk to the bedside table, removing his now-soiled Volsa-Terga gloves as he moved.

_"What the hell was that?"_

The mongrel's breath, fury, and pride had recovered enough for him to start snarling again.

Iason laid his gloves on the table. "I took the payment you offered in return for my assistance."

"Well next time let them cut a little!"

Iason laughed.

He could not remember laughing that way- abruptly and spontaneously.

"Real fucking funny, fuckhead."

"And your name?"

"Fuck off."

He was tugging on his pants, pulling his head through the cheap, hole-riddled shirt. Iason smiled at him with a certain affection.

"I enjoyed your performance very much. Far more than I expected. Perhaps I could make arrangements for you to perform as one of the Vatois courtesans."

"Go fuck yourself. We're even. Let's leave it that way."

"Ah, but we _aren't _even."

The mongrel paused to glare at him, leaving his blistered feet half-shoved into the broken-soled shoes. "What the hell do you mean-"

"I think it safe to say I took rather more than was offered. Now _I'm_ indebted to _you_." The offer had been, essentially, an invitation to rape him, and so debase them both. There had been nothing coquettish in the proposition. The black-haired boy meant to make Iason come in hatred and loathing for his mongrel body, and Iason had done the opposite- giving pleasure upon pleasure, frightening and confusing him with the power of the rarely-used blondie sexual abilities. "And I, too, dislike being indebted."

He reached into his mantle and withdrew a series of thin, varicolored filaments. Food credits. Medical credits. Improvement credits. Entertainment credits.

The mongrel's eyes went wide, and Iason saw him swallow involuntarily, saw his eyes dart to the door and back. It was worth the insignificant expense just to watch that defiant face go slack with awe.

"Consider it payment—for a kiss."


	5. Chapter 5 Work In Progress

**Disclaimer:** Standard disclaimer about _Ai No Kusabi_ belonging to its creator, etc.

**A/N: **I swear, I don't usually post WIPs, I'm just keenly aware of the fact that I've been gone a long time, and I wanted to let any readers know that I haven't forgotten this story. If you want to see what's been taking so long, go here: (http : / www . pemberley . com / bin / fic / fic . cgi) -No spaces. I'm #41. Your vote would be very appreciated.

I did also want to really thank everyone who came out of the woodwork and messaged me or left a review last time. (Guess I know what sparks your interest, neh?) And thanks for the tips on finding DE. I can't believe I didn't think to search through Lena's site, and I kinda wish I'd figured that out BEFORE copying out half the text by hand from off the youtube episodes. I mention this so that you can laugh at me. _

Anyway, I just wanted to let you know that I'm working on this story. Had a dream about it last night, actually. Yum.

* * *

_It's a trick. Don't fall for it. _

_Remember what happened to Ayma._

Maybe that Midas law-gang had had it right. They had run as soon as they saw this blondie. Maybe they knew something a slum rat from Ceres would be too stupid to figure out.

Ayma Voriss. The neighbor girl from down the hall. Older and lushly developed while Riki had still been gangly and easily-infatuated. Both he and Gai had had massive crushes on her. She'd whistled for a week about how her ship had come in, how one of her johns had promised to marry her- a Midaser. Rich as hell.

Riki had been happy for her as she packed and left.

But she'd come back.

They always came back.

Turns out the Midaser just wanted to use her as a drug mule, smuggling Itch into Nitan and Guardian, and as a fall girl when the deal went south. She got out of the Police Center pregnant. Died in the bathtub giving herself an abortion.

Riki had been the one to find her. Her hopeful face whiter than chalk, open-eyed and floating in water red as her lipstick.

"If I wanted you hurt," Iason Mink said gently, "you would be hurt already."

Riki looked from the credits, to Iason's doll-like face, and back again.

It wasn't as much as he was hoping to turn a car for, but it was close to what he, a mongrel, could expect to get.

More importantly, it was enough.

Enough for Gai.

And this blonde shit really _had _taken more than was fair.

_Shit. _

Cops would arrest a mongrel just for _having _that much money. It would be damn easy for blondie-boy to turn him in with some sob story about a delinquent mongrel thief.

Did he have a reason to pull shit like that?

Did he need one?

Who knew why Elites did anything?

Iason Mink was, at that moment, tossing his year's-pay gloves into the hotel room trash.

_Fuck it._

Riki snatched the credits off the table and stuffed them into his jacket.

If he stayed off the main streets and got back to Ceres fast . . .

He was already out the door before calling over his shoulder: "You've got mongrel blood on your lips."


End file.
